“My shoes are very squeaky; I’m sorry.”
I realized her shoes were indeed “very squeaky” as she walked past the place where I sat with my journal. They were white and looked rather mushed, too. But as their rubber squeak receded down the sidewalk, I was not at all sorry to have heard it. Rather, I felt greatly glad that squeaky shoes existed in the world.
No doubt it is a trial to walk with squeaking footfall on brick sidewalks past serene girls who write with silver pens. No doubt it is a trial to have one’s feet announce their arrival before one can speak. But there is equally little doubt that it is a delight to live in a world wherein strangers apologize, quite out of the blue, for their shoes. I am delighted.